


The Question

by sofia_gigante



Series: Questions and Answers [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Domestic, Eames is good with kids, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Post-Inception, Single Parent Arthur, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The funeral was lovely. At least that’s what everyone said to Arthur. A lovely funeral for a lovely girl.</i>
</p><p>Ariadne's gone, leaving a broken Arthur to raise their son alone. Only, he's not sure he's really his son, and Arthur can't bring himself to find out the truth, not if the other option is <i>him</i>...</p><p>Fucking Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question

The funeral was lovely. At least that’s what everyone said to Arthur. A lovely funeral for a lovely girl.

“We’re so sorry.”

“Such a tragic loss.”

“At least you still have…”

Arthur nodded, shook hands, and thanked guests in a daze. He played a game with himself, trying to guess how many of these mourners had been on the wedding guest list. It was hard to tell without Ariadne to make the introductions.

Everything would be hard now without Ariadne.

“Hey.” Dom materialized next to Arthur. Which meant Arthur had gotten through another 20 minutes of this affair.  He could set his watch to Dom’s check-ins. He didn’t mind. Cobb had done this before—buried a wife.

In Arthur’s case, an almost wife.

“Saito’s secretary had impeccable taste,” Arthur murmured. He fingered one of the white blossoms on the _hanawa_ wreath displayed in the living room. There was no name on the attached banner, but there would only be one man who would send a traditional Japanese funeral wreath for Ariadne.

Everyone who met her—even briefly—had loved her. 

“Can I get you anything?” Dom asked quietly. He knew the answer. It was the same one Arthur had given him the last three times he’d asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You should eat something. Miles brought a good…” Dom trailed off. “Shit.”

Curious, Arthur turned to follow his gaze.

Eames stood by the casket, his fingers barely resting on the dark wood. Arthur couldn’t see his face. Good.

Cobb turned back to Arthur, full of defensive indignation. “I don’t know how he found out—”

“I invited him.” Arthur said. “He had a right to know.”

“Does he know about—”

A shrill, mewling cry cut through the murmured whispers, silencing everyone for a moment. Then, an older, dark-skinned woman hurried to the bassinet in the corner, cooing in a thick Jamaican accent as she pulled the newborn up into her arms.

“Andrew? He does now.”

Content that his son was safe with his nanny, Arthur turned back to the flower wreath.

His son.

*****

It had been a typical love story: boy meets girl at work, falls head over heels.

They had so much in common. They were like in age. Both had been raised without parents, Ariadne by her grandparents, and Arthur by the state of Wisconsin. They both loved old silent films, black coffee, and geeking out about architecture. He knew he was in love by their first real date—a literal dream date—when she built them the perfect restaurant: a revolving dining room atop a tower with a 360 degree ocean view. 

She took a job in a New York architecture firm, and Arthur found he had fewer and fewer reasons to take high-risk jobs in other countries. He’d saved his money. He could retire early. They rented a brownstone together in the Village, and on the day they moved in, Arthur dropped to one knee and asked The Question.

She needed time to think.

The next morning, she said yes, and things were good—for a while.

Then Eames had approached them with a job offer.

It was high risk, high reward. Not as big as the Fischer Job, but definitely tricky. Arthur wasn’t interested, but Ariadne had been. Eames had left two plane tickets to Shanghai on their dining room table, on top of the wedding planning binder. The flight left in three days.

Perhaps it was the boredom of using dream sharing for mundane architecture planning, or maybe it was her version of cold feet before the wedding, but she insisted they take the job. She hadn’t had a good challenge since Fischer. She wanted excitement. Adventure. A break from the routine.

So…Arthur was now “routine.”

The crack between them began with that first disagreement, and widened into a gulf over the next few days. Minor infractions became major violations, and every other conversation ended in an argument. Eventually, it came out—Arthur didn’t think Ariadne was up to it. Not after only one heist. She had too much at stake—her career, her future, her marriage.

When Arthur awoke the next morning, Ariadne was gone, along with one of the plane tickets.

He could’ve followed, he supposed. But he didn’t.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

She came home two weeks later. She was different—quieter, evasive. Eventually, the truth came out.

Eames.

It had been only one night.

Eames.

She had been so mad at Arthur.

Eames.

She had regretted it even as it was happening.

Of all the men in the world, she had cheated on him with fucking _Eames_.

Arthur left that day. Took a trip to LA, and surprised Dom in his backyard, playing ball with his son.

“Fucking Eames.”

By the time Arthur returned, Ariadne had moved out. The wedding planning was all neatly put away in a banker box in the dining room, her diamond ring on his dresser.

It became his new totem.

Three jobs in as many months, and he came home from after a red eye flight from Stockholm to find her sitting on their couch, a crumpled sonogram in her trembling hand.

“We need to talk.”

The fetus was between ten and twelve weeks along. She had been in Shanghai eleven weeks ago. In that two week gap rested the six million dollar question. Seeing the tears trace down her pale cheeks, Arthur realizes he didn’t care. He’d missed her with all of his being, and if this was a chance for them to work things out, to start again, then he would take it.

The couples counseling went well, as did the wedding planning. What didn’t go so well was the pregnancy. High blood pressure. Headaches. Nausea. Eventually, she’d been diagnosed with preeclampsia. Everything stopped in Arthur's world except caring for Ariadne and the baby. Tests, medications, bed rest—everything modern science could do.

It still wasn't enough.

She only got to hold Andrew once, and the look of sheer, fleeting joy on her pale face would haunt Arthur for the rest of his life.

“He’s perfect.”

He was blond.

*****

“Mr. Cobb, I am so sorry, but my daughter is sick! I have to go home!” The nanny practically sobbed, her phone clutched to her chest. “I cannot stay the night with the baby.”

Dom looked helplessly around Arthur’s apartment, as if he could find the answer to his dilemma amid the stacked plates and tasteful flower arrangements left after the wake. The last of the guests waved as they ducked out the door, and Dom returned the acknowledgment absently.

Well, shit. Arthur was in no shape to take care of a newborn. He had retreated to his bedroom as soon as it had been polite for him to do so, and was probably asleep by now. Baby Andrew snuffled quietly in his bassinet in the living room, as well, an image of deceptive calm. Dom knew that he was due for a feeding soon, but he couldn’t stay. His flight back to LA left in two hours, and he’d promised Phillipa he’d be home by the time she awoke in the morning. He’d had to work hard with her and her therapists to regain her trust after his years-long absence. He couldn’t jeopardize their fragile relationship, even to help Arthur.

“I can stay.”

Dom started, surprised to see Eames drift in from the darkened dining room. He thought Eames had left hours ago.

“You?” Dom didn’t know if he was more startled or upset. “No offense, but I think you’re the last person Arthur wants here.”

“Doesn’t matter. No one else to look after the tyke, is there?”

Dom’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “ _You_ know how to take care of a newborn?”

Eames' gaze was even. “I do.”

Dom looked at his watch, at the tearful nanny, at his old friend. No one else was offering, and he was out of options.

“Fine.” He leveled a stern finger at Eames, “Arthur’s been through enough. Don’t make it worse.”

“He won't even know I was here.”

*****

It was nearly 3 a.m. when Arthur finally awoke. Somnacin made an excellent sleep aid when you weren’t hooked up to a PASIV device.

He didn’t want to be awake, but his stomach told him otherwise. He’d gone, what, two days now without eating?

He padded out of his bedroom towards the kitchen. It was only when he saw the half-finished baby bottle sitting on the dining room table that he remembered Andrew.

He poked his head into the silent living room, fully expecting to find the baby sleeping in the arms of the nanny Cobb had hired for him.

Who he found was Eames.

He was sprawled out on the couch, one long leg extended out, the other fallen to the floor in his sleep. The TV flickered mutely, an old episode of _I Love Lucy_ illuminating him and Andrew as they slept. One of Eames’ big hands was clutched around a soiled burp rag, the other resting lightly on the edge of the bassinet, as if he’d passed out mid-rock. He looked peaceful. Paternal.

Dark blond and light blond.

Something twisted in Arthur’s heart, something cold and hard and angry. Hunger forgotten, he retreated back to his bedroom. From the bedside table he pulled a slim, unopened envelope. There was no name on the return label, but he knew what was inside—the results from the paternity test Ariadne had ordered.

They had decided not to open it, even after the difficult choice they’d made to get the test done. It would be good to know, she’d thought, for medical purposes, just in case.

Arthur toyed with the flap of the envelope. He could open it, know the truth. If his suspicions were correct, he would have every legal right to just walk out that door, leave Eames to his responsibility…

Leaving behind the last piece of Ariadne that Arthur had left.

He slid the envelope back in the drawer, unopened.

*****

“I christen thee Andrew Minos Graiden.”

Arthur smiled as Dom held the baby over the basin, offering him to the priest as he dribbled holy water over his godson’s forehead. Andrew didn't cry, he simply watched the proceedings with wide, brown eyes.

Arthur knew it was old-fashioned of him to get his son baptized. Ariadne probably would’ve argued, said something about religious indoctrination at an early age. But she wasn’t here to protest.

She wasn’t here for anything anymore.

As Arthur walked down the center aisle of the church with Andrew in his arms, he caught a glimpse of a broad, familiar figure ducking out of one of the side doors.

Eames.

Arthur’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t seen Eames since the night of Ariadne’s wake six months before. When Arthur had awoken the next afternoon, he’d been gone, replaced by the apologetic nanny. The image of Eames and Andrew had haunted Arthur though, so much that he almost hadn’t sent him an invitation to the christening.

He had anyway. He still didn’t know why.

Eames didn’t come to the reception, though. Not that Arthur was looking for him. After the party, when he was going through the gifts, he found an envelope with over two thousand dollars cash in hundred dollar bills. No card, no name.

Fucking Eames.

*****

 “Don’t eat the candle, Andrew!”

Andrew looked up at his father with the end of the wax 1 stuck between his pearly little teeth, his face smeared with blue frosting. Arthur had gotten the cupcakes from Ariadne’s favorite bakery in the Village. It’s what she would’ve wanted for her son’s first birthday.

Arthur snapped a picture with his phone to send to Dom. It’s a shame he couldn’t make it, but he’d already done so much for Arthur in the past year. He doesn’t know how he would’ve survived without his help, his quiet support.

As he bid farewell to one of the guests at the door, his shrewd eye caught a flicker of movement from across the street, a break in the usual foot traffic on the tree-lined avenue.

Eames.

To his—and Eames’ surprise—he crossed the street.

Neither of them knew what to say. So, they look at each other in awkward silence, a thousand questions, accusations, and apologies flickering between them. Finally, Arthur broke the silence.

“You still working?”

Eames nodded, his gaze darting away. “Here and there.”

Silence stretched again.

“How’s the tyke?” Eames asked.

“Good. Growing.” Arthur considered. “Do you want to come in and see him?”

Eames looked at the open door, the lintel festooned with a small bunch of blue balloons. Just beyond it, Andrew toddled by with the help of his nanny, and Arthur saw something he’d never seen in Eames’ eyes before—a flash of genuine fear.

“I…I was just passing through. Have an appointment to keep.” He thrust a brown paper bag at Arthur. “Give the little one my best, yeah?”

Then he was gone, striding down the street with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head held high. Too high.

Curious, Arthur opened the bag. He half expected to find another stack of cash, all in small, unmarked bills.

It was a brown teddy bear.

*****

“I miss you, buddy. Be a good boy for madda.” Arthur wished Andrew good-night from across the Atlantic. His heart breaks a little as he hears his 18-month-old son wail in despair as he hangs up for the night. It’s Arthur’s first time away from Andrew for more than a night, and both of them are feeling the strain.

Paris. Of all the places the company had to send him, it would have to be Paris. He can see Ariadne’s old architecture institute from his hotel window. He keeps the blinds drawn against the skyline.

He decided on a bistro down the block for dinner, trying not to look at the couples laughing over their wine glasses. It’s crowded, so he’s lucky to get a seat on the street so he can take in the view of the Seine.

“This seat taken?”

Arthur looked up from his menu in surprise. In all the restaurants in all the world…

“Eames? What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are. Working.”

Arthur nodded to the empty chair across from him before he could stop himself. He’s glad for the company. Though he’d never admit it.

“I doubt very much we’re both doing the same type of work anymore.”

“Oh?” Eames’ eyebrow arched, and he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You still legit, then?”

“As legitimate as architectural project management is,” Arthur sighs.

“Boring.”

“Stable,” he  shot back. “Good health insurance.”

“Health Insurance?” Eames looked suddenly concerned. “Is the tyke all right?”

Arthur was surprised again. “Yeah. Fine. He checked out well at his 18 month appointment, though he’s not really talking yet.”

Eames sat back, his brow creasing deeper. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Mum said I didn’t talk until I was almost three. I turned out fine.”

Eames’ eyes didn’t meet Arthur’s. This could go either way, couldn’t it?

“I wouldn’t say fine.”

Eames laughed, a little more loudly than the weak joke warrants. Arthur smiles anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled outside of Andrew’s presence.

They talk for a while, keeping it light and easy. Two old work acquaintances chatting over dinner. They’re both careful to keep their food and drinks away from each other. And old extractor habit. No offense. None taken.

“You know, if you want to see Andrew sometime…” Arthur doesn’t finish his sentence. He’s not sure what he wants to say: _stop by anytime? Go fuck yourself, he’s my son, not yours?_

Eames considered for a long moment, and there, again, is the odd sheen of fear twined with longing.

“I’ve got a full docket these days,” Eames finally said, looking away. “Heading out to Istanbul in a couple of days.”

“Istanbul?” Warning bells went off in Arthur’s brain. “Are you working for—”

Eames put a finger to his lips to silence Arthur. Arthur noted—not for the first time—just how full and pink they were.

So very similar to Andrew’s.

*****

“But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden and squeezed under the gate!”

Arthur peeked in from the kitchen at Eames and Andrew. They’d curled up on the couch together, Andrew perched comfortably in Eames’ lap. Eames had brought the book for the boy, an early birthday gift. It had been wrapped in a paper bag bearing the logo for LaGuardia Airport. A last-minute gift, then.

It’d been five months since their impromptu dinner in Paris. Arthur hadn’t expected Eames to ever take him up on his feeble offer, but there he was in his living room, “popping in to check on the tyke” because his flight to Madrid had been canceled until tomorrow morning.

Arthur fleetingly considered offering to let him stay the night rather than spend the money on a hotel.

He didn’t.

“How are you so good with kids?” Arthur asked, handing Eames a beer as he joined them on the couch.

“Helped raise my sister’s brood.” Eames shrugged. “She dumped them on my mum, and I had to help out ‘til I left for the service.”

“Sounds busy.”

“Too busy. Poor tykes. Kids need a mother.”

It hung in the air, thick and acrid as smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Eames murmurs, his face scarlet. “I didn’t think.”

_No. No you didn’t._

“He’s got his madda,” Arthur said casually. Too casually. “Spends more time with her than he does with me. It’s going to be hard on him when we move.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up in surprise over his beer bottle. “You’re moving?”

“Have to. Building owner’s looking to sell, and once he does, the rent’s going to skyrocket. It’s happening all over the city, especially here in the Village. I can’t keep it up on one income.”

“Don’t you have…savings?” Eames asked carefully. “You worked a lot, before you became a project manager.”

Arthur couldn’t help the bitter little smile that touched his lips. “Medical bills. Ariadne didn’t have health insurance.”

“Oh.”

“Add in the cost of the rent, the nanny, diapers, formula…poof. Not if I want to have anything left over for Andrew to go to Cambridge someday.”

“Cambridge?”

“Or Oxford. Not picky.” Arthur took a long draw from his beer, watching as his son squirmed out of Eames’ lap and back down to the pile of big Legos on the floor.

“Where were you thinking of going, then?”

“I don’t know. Might move to the outer boroughs, might move to LA, be closer to Dom. Might up and go back to Milwaukee. Who knows.”

“Who knows,” Eames echoed absently, his eyes  locked on Andrew as he snapped together the brightly colored bricks. “Lots of places in the world for a boy to grow up.”

*****

 _Dear Mr. Graiden,_  
  
_Congratulations on your new home! As we understand that you are not yet of age, your new acquisition is in your father’s name, Arthur David Graiden, until you come of age on…_

Fucking Eames.

*****

“Daddy! Lookit my castle!”

Andrew patted the top of the mound of dirt proudly, grinning as only a two and half year old could. Arthur snapped a picture with his phone. Their little afternoon outings at the park were too rare these days, with Arthur's impacted work schedule.

“Wow! That’s a great looking castle, champ!”

Arthur whipped around, his heart thundering in his chest.

“You!” He snarled at Eames. “You had no right!”

Eames’ eyes flashed in surprise, his hands coming up defensively. “Arthur, you really want to talk about this right here and now?”

He thought Arthur was talking about _her_.

“The house,” he snapped tersely. “I meant the house.”

_Though, really, you had no right fucking my fiancée either._

“Oh.” His relief is palpable in the one syllable.

“I don’t need your charity.” Arthur doesn’t look at Eames. He couldn’t let him see his raw fragility, the truth of how Eames had single-handedly saved Arthur from financial ruin.

“It’s not charity. It’s a gift.”

“It’s too much.”

“I wasn’t using the money for anything useful anyway. I can always get more.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

Arthur took a deep breath, and forced himself to face Eames. “I’m going to pay you back.”

“Not necessary. It’s why it’s a gift.”

Eames’ eyes were calm, though at the corners Arthur could see the hints of uncertainty.

“You can’t buy my forgiveness, Eames.” It slipped out before Arthur could stop himself.

Eames flinched visibly, but he didn’t turn away. Uncertainty turned to anger, and he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, his gaze flickered to the vacant patch of sand beside them.

“Where’s the tyke?”

Arthur scanned the playground, checking the slide, the swings, the tunnel—no Andrew. Panic exploded in his chest like a firecracker, sharp and blinding. He darted towards the nearby street, terrified that Andrew’s fascination with cars was about to lead to tragedy. Or maybe it was a kidnapping. Random, planned, who knew? Arthur still had enemies out there—

“Arthur!” Eames called from behind him. “Arthur, it’s okay!”

Arthur turned to see Andrew in Eames’ arms, pointing frantically towards the jangling ice cream trolley that was rolling away.

“I want ice cream!” The boy cried.

“Nope, not after running from your dad like that.” Eames’ voice was firm, yet kind, as he carried Andrew back. “Only good boys who listen get treats.”

Arthur had expected indulgence from Eames, not easy discipline. He was a natural at this.

Something cold and brittle in Arthur gave, a glacial sheaf sliding into the icy sea inside of him, floating away.

“You want to get dinner?” He croaked out, surprising himself more than Eames.

“I don’t think—”

“Pizza! Pizza!” Andrew chimed, clinging to Eames’ neck. “I’m hungry!”

“I’ll buy.” Arthur swallowed hard.

“In that case, sure.”

*****

 “Oh boy! It’s a plane!”

Andrew beamed at the tin toy he’d pulled from the battered paper bag Eames had presented him.

“Saw it in a market in Istanbul and thought of you, champ.”

Eames ruffled the three-year-old’s hair. It’s darkened some from the toe-headed blondness into a more sandy color. Even more like Eames’. Not for the first time, Arthur wished he had more information on his own genetic legacy, whether he came from a long line of blondes that just happened to mix with a recent brunette.

If he ever dared open the envelope in his bedside drawer, he’d know the answer to the question he was _really_ asking.

“Thanks, Unc!” Andrew ran off to his room to play with his new toy, making airplane noises as he went.

“Istanbul again?” Arthur asked as soon as Andrew was out of earshot. “Melik is a dangerous man.”

“He’s a bit old-fashioned, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before. He’s harmless.” Eames replied, taking a long draw from his beer.

“So harmless he gave you that shiner?” Arthur pointed to the fading bruise rimming Eames’ eye. It worried him deeply. Wasn’t the first time Eames had taken a beating, and wouldn’t be the last. But for people like Melik, who ran international crime syndicates, black eyes were dainty slaps on the wrist.

“I fucked up,” Eames said lightly. “Now I owe them a little pro bono work to make up for it.”

“You’re going back?” Arthur’s stomach churned sourly. Fucking up an extraction was serious business. People died for it. If Eames had to work off his debt, there was no telling what sort of dangerous or illegal tasks he would be asked to perform.

“Just for another job. Then I am done working for Melik and his clan. I hate Turkish food.” Eames chuckled dryly, trying to make light of his predicament.

Arthur didn’t bother laughing at the joke. “Look, I know I’m rusty, but I can leave Andrew with his nanny, come help you out.”

Eames was moved. Arthur could tell just by the way he turned his head to hide his expression, peering at him sidelong through his long eyelashes. For one moment, Arthur’s heart beat a little faster.

“You? No offense, but I need someone a bit more…imaginative to help me out of this one.”

And then the moment was gone, Eames using humor and insults to deflect, like he always did. Fine.

“Besides. The tyke needs you. You can’t take stupid risks anymore.”

“Unc, are you staying?” Andrew padded back into the kitchen—as if on cue—his impish face hopeful. God, he looked more and more like Ariadne each day.

“I’m afraid I can’t, champ. I have a flight to catch tomorrow.” He got down on one knee. “Just wanted to check in on my favorite little monster.”

“Do you have to go?” The boy pouted. “Daddy’s always more fun when you’re around.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up as quickly as Arthur’s, their eyes meeting over Andrew’s head. Sure, in the past six months they’d had a few nice dinners and outings when Eames dropped by for one of his surprise layover visits, but Arthur had just seen it as a way for Andrew to have some semblance of family in his life.

He did it for Andrew.

“You already have your hotel?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Not yet.”

“The couch is yours, if you want it.”

*****

Andrew’s sobbing cry woke Arthur from a deep sleep. He wasn’t dreaming. He never dreamed anymore. The same couldn’t be said for his son.

Bleary-eyed, Arthur struggled to fit his feet into his slippers, succeeding only in kicking one under the bed. Cursing, he abandoned it as Andrew’s cries grew more shrill and urgent, and he hurried into the hall.

“Hey, hey, shhhhh, it’s all right.”

Arthur stopped short—Eames was in Andrew’s room. Arthur didn’t know if the realization soothed or incensed him. He had no right to be in there.

“Unc?” Andrew’s crying slowed, and then stopped.

“Yeah, champ. I’m here.”

“Don’t go.”

“I promise I’ll stay until you go back to sleep.”

“Don’t wanna sleep.”

“Sure you do. Sleep is great. You get rest, have fun dreams—”

“Dreams are scary.”

“Sometimes. But they can’t hurt you. They’re just in your head.”

Arthur was mesmerized by this conversation. He felt wrong, somehow, eavesdropping, and that feeling made him even more upset. Eames was the outsider here. Not Arthur.

 _He_ was Andrew’s father.

“I don’t know if he’s told you, but your daddy has a special power. He can control dreams.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm. Maybe when you’re older, he’ll teach you how.”

“Will it make the bad dreams go away?”

“It’ll make them less scary. Now, go to sleep.”

Andrew’s room went quiet, and Arthur turned to step back into his own.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”

No. No way.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”

Eames was singing to Andrew.

“Hush now, don't you cry.”

Fucking Eames.

There’s no way he could know what he was doing. None at all.

The nurse at the home had sung that song to Arthur. He’d gotten the chicken pox at the age of six, and had spent a week quarantined in the infirmary. He’d been miserable—lonely and itchy and sick. It was the smallest kindness for a thin, frightened boy, the merest whisper of parental affection.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he was back in his room, his sobs lodged in his throat. He refused to let them out lest Andrew heard them—Andrew, just Andrew—and he tried to jam them back down into his chest. The refused to go, though, and he resorted to locking himself in his bathroom, muffling his sounds in the thick, navy blue towels that had been an early wedding gift from Ariadne’s great-aunt.

It shouldn’t be Eames in there singing to Andrew. It should be Ariadne. But she’s gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

Everything that had been bottled up in the past four years finally came pouring out—the pain, the bitterness, the loneliness, the grief. He cried for her, for Andrew, for himself.

For Eames.

When he finally finished, he felt empty. Clean. New.

Back in bed, he opened his bedside drawer. Only this time he didn't reach for the envelope. He pulled out a small, black velvet box. He unsnapped the gold chain from around his neck, and gently placed it—and Ariadne’s diamond ring—in its bed. He looks at it, shining in the dim light, before shutting the lid closed and tucking it back in the drawer.

That night, he dreams naturally for the first time in years.

_“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”_

*****

 

“Two weeks? Why did you wait this long to call me, Yusuf?”

“You know Eames. He vanishes, then reappears. But this time, when he missed two appointments…”

The phone crackles, the connection from Mombasa poor. Arthur rubbed his hand across his forehead, and then snapped his fingers vigorously at Andrew.

“Get down from there!”

Andrew doesn’t look the slightest bit guilty as he hops down from the bar stool with the tin plane in hand. His pink mouth is pursed as it makes little motor sounds, _whooshing_ off into the living room.

That mouth.

“Sorry,” Arthur apologized to Yusuf. Think, think. What could he say on an unsecured line? “Last time I saw him, he was on his way to Istanbul. Had some clean-up to do.”

Yusuf swore quietly, and when he next spoke, his tone was urgent, afraid. “Arthur…the king is dead.”

Arthur’s heart stops. Melik. “He’s dead?”

“Hostile take-over. New king is running the kingdom a bit differently. He doesn’t do clean up. He does pay-back. Sets examples.”

Adrenaline coursed through Arthur, making his skin feel too tight. He has to move, to do…do something, even if there’s a good chance there’s nothing that can be done.

_No, don’t think like that. This is Eames. Fucking Eames. He’s a survivor._

“Do you have connections in Turkey? People you trust?”

“Yes, but—”

“Get a hold of them. Tell them I’ll meet them in Istanbul in three days. I need to make a stop in Rome first. Some favors to call in.”

The gears, rusty as they were, were already turning in Arthur’s head. At one point in his career, he’d been known as the best point man in the business. It was time to re-establish his reputation.

He hung up with Yusuf, and within moments he was swiping through the contacts on his phone. He didn’t want to admit how frightened he was. Not just for Eames, not for himself, but for Andrew. If he fucks this up…

His boy can’t grow up in a home, too. The thought made his lungs squeeze so tightly around his heart he could barely breathe.

Calm. Focus. He could do this.  

“Fajah? It’s Arthur. I know it’s short notice, but I need you or your sister to come stay with Andrew for a few days. Business trip. I don’t know for sure how long.” He swallowed hard. “Depends on whether or not I can seal the deal.”

*****

 “Ar…Art…”

“Don’t try to talk. We’re going to get you out of here, Eames.”

“Wha…”

“He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I can see that. Get the med kit.”

“Arthur, we only have a few minutes!”

“And all this will be for nothing if he bleeds out right here! We move after he’s stable!”

“Dr…Drew?”

“He’s fine. Safe.”

“Thank God,” Eames actually sobs. “It was just a dream.”

He passed out halfway to the helicopter. Arthur carried him the rest of the way.

*****

Arthur watched Eames sleep fitfully in his hospital bed, his one remaining eye darting under its eyelid as he dreamed. Arthur considered waking him, freeing him, but he knew how badly Eames needed his rest.

God, as if there would be enough sleep in the world to heal these wounds.

Yusuf’s words played over and over in Arthur’s mind: _“He doesn’t do clean up. He does pay-back. Sets examples.”_ And Eames has been made quite the example. He’d be lucky if he could walk again.

Old church bells tolled from somewhere outside, striking the hour. Three o’clock. It’d been almost a decade since Arthur had been to Rome. He'd missed it.

It had been a long, dangerous trip from Turkey, but he knew that Melik’s cadre couldn’t touch them in the heart of another syndicate’s domain. Not with the favors Arthur had finally called in. Once Eames was more stable, Arthur would see about having him moved to a hospital in London. He would have preferred to have him closer, in New York, but international restrictions were going to be challenging enough.

Eames twitched, his hands lifting up off the bed as if to fend someone off. He began muttering, urgently. Arthur knew from experience that in Eames’ mind, that sound was a scream.

“Hey, hey, shhhhh, it’s all right.” He placed a gentle hand on Eames’ shoulder, shaking him.

Eames’ eye flew open—the ruin of the other hidden under a gauze bandage—darting around in terrified disorientation. When it landed on Arthur’s face it stopped, focused intently.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, Eames. I’m here.”

“Don’t go.”

“Not going anywhere.”

His hand slid easily into Eames’, and he squeezed tightly. Eames clung back, holding onto Arthur as if he were a lifeline. They sat in silence for a long, long time, listening to Rome murmur from the open window.

“Why did you come?”  Arthur had never heard Eames like this—soft, afraid, fragile.

His heart twisted in a knot as he realized the truth—they had broken Eames. Fucking _Eames_.

“I told you I’d pay you back for the house.” Arthur grinned, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt.

Eames stared at Arthur with his one eye, as if trying to see through him, cut through the feeble façade to reach the very heart of him.

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s chest constricted.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he lied, gently.

“I knew what we were doing to you. But after you walked away from me in Rio…then watching you two fall for each other right in front of me…”

“Please stop.”

“I wanted to hurt you. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

Arthur could barely breathe. And there it was, out in the open at last. Why, of all the men in the world, when Ariadne had turned to Eames, it had been not one, but two blades through the heart.

Arthur knew he should feel the hot flare of anger, the stab of betrayal anew. He had nursed that bitterness for so very many years. Now, though, looking down at the mottled horror of Eames’s bruised face, the repentance gleaming in his blue-grey eye, he felt only one thing.

“I forgive you,” he whispers, and the barbed knot that had twined itself around his soul finally unraveled and fell away. 

“I want to make things right,” Eames said softly. He closed his eye. “For both you and Drew.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Arthur leaned forward, and pressed a soft kiss to Eames’ sweaty forehead.

“Let’s get _you_ right, first.”

*****

“I see him!” Andrew cried out jubilantly. “I see Unc!”

“Then hold the sign up higher so he can see it.” Arthur instructed the squirming preschooler in his arms, ducking back in time to avoid getting the corner of the cardboard sign in his eye. God, Andrew was getting too heavy to hold up this long!

He watched as Eames made his way slowly past the customs checkpoint, his eye already scanning the crowd for them. Even amid the motley crowd of the airport, Eames stood out with his dark eyepatch and his wooden cane. He would never blend in anywhere again. Not that he needed to. He was officially retired.

“Unc!” Andrew hollered, loud enough to make Arthur flinch.

Eames turned towards them, his face breaking out into a grin. It made him look just like his old self for a moment. It was beautiful.

Arthur spared him the trouble of walking all the way towards them, and met him halfway. He embraced him, easily, surprised at how his body warmed to feel Eames against his.

“I ordered you a wheelchair,” he murmured into Eames’ ear.

“Don’t bloody need it,” Eames replied, a flash of indignant pride in his eye.

“Gonna take us a year to get to the car.”

“You in a rush?”

“Not me.”

“Unc! Unc!” Andrew bounded around them like a sandy-haired puppy. “Did you bring me present from London?”

“Drew, you know better than to ask for presents!” Arthur sighed.

Eames smiled down at the boy. “I did. But you’ll have to be good and listen to your Dad until we get to your house.”

Andrew pouted. “What happened to your eye? You look like a pirate.”

Arthur was horrified. He’d told Andrew that Unc would look different when they picked him up from the airport, and that it was rude to ask. Try teaching tact over curiosity to a near four-year-old.

“Well, I am a pirate!” Eames chuckled. “That’s what I was doing in London. Pillaging the high seas!” He did an impressive pirate impression that had even Arthur laughing.

Fucking Eames.

*****

 “You sure you’re okay on the couch? You can have the bed if—”

“Will you stop mothering me? I’m fine!”

“The rental bed should’ve arrived this afternoon, I don’t know what happened.”

“Look, if I can sleep on a plane, I can sleep on a couch.”

Eames laid out on the couch, though Arthur didn’t miss the wince he tried to hide as he stretched out his legs. There was only so much two surgeries and nine months of physical therapy could do.

“Really, take the bed.”

“Really, go fuck yourself.”

“Fine. Good-night.”

*****

A strangled cry woke Arthur from his deep sleep. He listened, alert, ready to get up to go to Andrew’s room again.

It wasn’t Andrew.

Arthur hurried out to the living room. Eames was twitching on the couch, spasming in his sleep. Tight, frightened sounds escaped from his closed lips, his hands clawing in front of him. Arthur clasped them in his own, holding tight as he knelt beside him.

“Hey, hey, Eames, you’re all right!” He called out. It did nothing. He let go of one of Eames’ hands, palmed his clammy cheek. “Eames!” No response. “Braden!”

Eames’ eyelids snapped open. Arthur forced himself not to stare into the chasm that used to be his left eye, fighting the revulsion churning in his belly. He focused instead on the one remaining eye, on the disorientation and fear slowly fading.

“You’re awake. You’re safe,” Arthur soothed. His hand moved up to Eames’ forehead, smoothing away the tendrils of sandy hair sticking there, just like he did when ever Andrew had nightmares.

Eames’ breathing slowly came back under control. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

Arthur shrugged, feeling oddly shy. “Thought it would help to hear your actual name.”

“It does.”

Slowly, Eames pulled his hand out of Arthur’s, and he surprised himself with the disappointment he felt. He understood why, though as he watched Eames fumble with the eyepatch, using both hands to put it back on.

“Did I wake the tyke?” Eames tried to cover his embarrassment with concern.

“Still asleep.”

“You sure?”

“If he were awake, he would be out here now, asking you to play pirates again.”

That got a genuine smile out of Eames. It’s fleeting, though, and his face shadowed again. “I’ll get a hotel tomorrow.”

“Why would you do that? I told you we’ll get you a real bed—”

“I can’t let him see me like this.” Eames whispered. His voice had taken on a brittle edge, the same it’d gotten whenever he’d discuss his recovery with Arthur over the phone from London. “It’s bad enough he’s got to see me with the cane and the eyepatch, but…”

Suddenly, Arthur understood.

He reached out for Eames’ face, ran his fingers over the edge of the eyepatch. Eames was frozen as Arthur carefully pulled it off. Arthur forced himself to look, to face the reality before him, the future he’s about to choose. He embraces it, with a sure clarity he’s only felt once before in his life.

“You look just fine to me, Braden. Fucking handsome as ever.”

Eames shook, badly. It only galvanized Arthur, brought out the protector in him as he gathered Eames fully into his arms. Eames’ breathing stopped as Arthur’s lips grazed the cheekbone just under the hollow of his missing eye. His lips skimmed downward until they found Eames’ lips, full and moist and yielding. Kissing him was like coming home.

After that night, Eames never slept on the couch again.

*****

The wedding was lovely. At least that’s what everyone said to Arthur. A lovely wedding for a lovely couple.

“We’re so happy for them.”

“We never thought he’d find someone like her.”

“The children love her so much.”

Arthur nodded, shook hands, and thanked guests in a daze. He played a game with himself, trying to guess how many of these guests really knew what Dom had been doing with his life before he became a dream therapist.

“That one, the big, Samoan bloke—best damn Architect on the Pacific Rim before he retired.” Eames whispered in Arthur’s ear. “He and Dom go way back.”

Arthur smiled. Everything was easier now with Eames.

“Hey.” Dom materialized next to Arthur, breathless, smiling. He had never seen Dom this happy. Well, perhaps once. Cobb had done this before—taken a wife.

The bride—Bridgette—joined them, a vision in diaphanous white. She was both so much and not at all like Mal—bubbly where Mal had been reserved, bright where Mal had smoldered. She was perfect for Dom.

“You look lovely,” Arthur murmured as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. The dress set off her ebony skin and flattered her lean form. For one fleeting moment, he wondered how Ariadne would have looked in the strapless Tadashi Shoji gown she’d picked. He’d never gotten to see.

Eames’ hand squeezed in Arthur’s, bringing him back to the here and now. The memory of Ariadne was carried away on the warm, tropical breeze, free to dance away on the nearby ocean tide.

“Let’s take a walk,” Eames said after the bride and groom swept off to greet the next group of guests. It’s a small wedding, right on an Oahu beach, not far from where Dom and Bridgette had met during their first scuba dive two years before.

“Should I get your cane?” Arthur asked, noting how heavily Eames was leaning on him. They’d been standing a lot today, and he knew how hard that was on Eames’ legs.

“No, don’t want to go far. Just want to take in the view.” Eames nodded towards the water, where the sun was scheduled to set in about 15 minutes. Not far away, Andrew scampered on the beach with Phillipa, James, and a few other children, their wedding finery streaked with wet sand. Arthur didn’t mind; he was just glad to see the children all together, safe, happy, innocent.

They walked away from the reception, the music from the band fading quickly as they got closer to the rush of the waves. From what Dom had told Arthur of his time in Limbo, he was surprised Dom had chosen a beach for his wedding. Perhaps it was a testament to how much time had passed, how much healing he’d done.

They’d all done a lot of healing these past years. Some more than others.

Eames was breathing hard through his nose, and Arthur felt how his gait had shifted to favor his right leg. There was a crop of rocks nearby, and Arthur steered them towards it. He knew Eames was hurting badly when he didn’t protest as Arthur guided him to sit on the smoothest rock.

“Fucking legs,” he muttered.

“Not your legs I’m fucking.” Arthur tried a feeble joke.

Eames glowered at him from his one good eye. He was wearing a tan, plastic eyepatch today, to blend in better with his skin tone for the special occasion. Arthur preferred the black one; it showed the world that Eames had nothing to be ashamed of.

Arthur sat down besides Eames as best he could on the rock, putting an arm around Eames’ waist and pulling him closer. Eames rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and they sat, silent, watching the sun drop closer and closer towards the horizon.

It was as perfect a time as any.

From the pocket of his white suit, Arthur pulled out a small, black velvet box. He held it out to Eames.

“What’s this?” Eames asked, his head coming up slowly.

“Open it.” Arthur’s throat was suddenly dry, his palms sweaty. God, this was a horrible idea. He had learned from experience that there was no faster way to damage a relationship than to try to move it too far, too fast.

Eames cracked open the box. He stared the contents, transfixed and silent.

“You asking what I think you are, love?”

“I am.” Arthur’s heart thundered, pounding louder than the ocean waves. “Do you want to hear me say it?”

“I think I do, yeah.”

Arthur cleared his throat. Never, in his entire life, had he ever felt so vulnerable. Last time he had asked this question, he’d gotten an “I need to think” that had led to a year of drama, heartbreak, and a son. He couldn’t even make himself go down on one knee. He hoped Eames would understand.

So, sitting side by side, staring out at the sea, Arthur asked the question he’d building up the courage to ask for almost two months.

“Braden Michael Eames, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

No hesitations. No questions. No negotiations. Just pure, quiet happiness, utter completeness.

The ring fit perfectly on Eames’ finger, the diamond in the thick gold band shining like fire in the sunset, bright as the joy in Arthur’s heart.

*****

The house was still a mess, even at 9 p.m., but what did Arthur expect when he’d invited an entire kindergarten class over for a birthday party?

Arthur was almost too tired to care, but still, he sifted through the debris, the shreds of wrapping paper, sagging balloons, and half-eaten plates of cake. Everywhere, cartoonish pictures of pirates peered at him with their one-eyed snarls. Of course, Andrew had picked a pirate theme for his birthday. Again.

He was almost done bagging up the worst of it when he realized that Braden wasn’t in the living room anymore. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either, or in the main bathroom.

“Love?” He called out softly, trying not to wake Andrew.

“In here.”

Arthur smiled as he realized Braden’s voice was coming from their bedroom. Perhaps he wasn’t so tired after all.

He wasn’t sprawled out invitingly on the bed, though. He was sitting on it, clutching a battered envelope.

 _The_ envelope.

Arthur’s heart sank into his stomach. He’d forgotten to put it away after he’d looked at it this afternoon, distracted by the arrival of the first guests.

“What’s this?” Braden asked. He looked up at Arthur, his one eye knowing. He just wanted to hear Arthur say it.

“An answer,” Arthur replied. He joined Braden on their bed.

“An answer to what?”

Arthur swallowed hard, twisting his gold wedding band on his finger, like he always did when he was nervous. “To a question I stopped asking a year ago.”

Braden blinked, realization dawning. “You never found out?”

Arthur shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to know. Now…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Braden slowly put the envelope down. He swallowed hard. “I have a present for you.”

“Oh?”

Braden pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket. “Been doing some digging. Called in a few favors, had some police records pulled.”

“I thought you said you were done with—”

“Last job, I promise.” Braden handed him the paper. “I hope you’ll appreciate my efforts.”

Arthur didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he tried to read the paper in front of him. It’s a color photocopy of an old Wisconsin driver’s license—David Pierce Graiden.

He’d seen that name a dozen times on a dozen legal documents, but never once had Arthur actually seen a picture of his father.

He was sandy blond.

Same as Andrew.

There’s more.

The same shape eyebrows. The same full lips. Perhaps, in thirty years, the same shaped nose.

_Same._

Braden’s arm slipped around his shoulder, pulling Arthur close. He said nothing, only pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s temple, letting him have his moment, his peace, his answer at last.

“Fucking Eames,” Arthur whispered.

“You’re welcome, darling.”


End file.
